


i'm half doomed and you're semi-sweet

by nbmothman



Series: the only true messiah rescues us from ourselves [3]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Paranoia, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2440979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbmothman/pseuds/nbmothman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete kinda hates what he's become. Maybe this is a chance to get better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm half doomed and you're semi-sweet

_I’d promise you anything for another shot at life_

_Imperfect boys with their perfect lives_

_Nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy_

-o-

Pete has a bad memory.

He can’t remember what it was like to write his own lyrics, because he has people for that now. Sometimes his hands itch and his brain screams _so loud_ that he does, but they’re too messy and don’t make sense and they’re too personal to show his bandmates. They’d call him a pussy and laugh at him because rock stars don’t cry and rock stars don’t miss their moms. He hates those moments of weakness when his façade breaks behind his own walls. He hates being weak and exposed and unloved and feeling so shitty. Boycotting feelings and never talking about them was just easier.

He can’t remember the last time he wasn’t tired.

Pete wakes up crying a lot because he feels so empty except for the dry burn of his mouth and throat from all the coke. Pete huddles in a ball in his bed gripping the sheets with his knuckles white, trying not to cry too loud so no one thinks he’s weak or sad. Because rock stars don’t get sad, and rock stars don’t have panic attacks. He bites his tongue and the inside of his cheek until he stops crying and there’s blood settled into his teeth and he’s hyperventilating so hard his lungs feel like they’re going to collapse. But he keeps quiet and doesn’t talk about it because _he wants to be okay_ , no matter how much he knows he isn’t.

He can’t remember when he had real friends.

Bandmates come and go, but now that they were all together after so long, they’d gotten tired of each other, their friendships had been pushed in the backs of their minds in place of tours and money and excitement. Those feelings eventually distorted into screaming matches and drunken battles that traded eyeliner for black eyes. They would play a show, jump off the stage and chuck their instruments away before darting to the lounge or the bathroom to find the venue’s drug of choice. At first the guys started to wander off without Pete and before long he had to find a way to occupy himself. Pete wasn’t a huge fan of ecstasy for long; he got tired of thinking about killing himself, planning his suicidal method, and writing a eulogy for himself every morning after. He never wanted to try heroin because trying to stick a needle in his vein grossed him out and he really didn’t want to worry about HIV. That’s the one thing he can pride himself on, he always uses protection. Even when he’s high off his fucking mind, he never forgot. He would hate to have someone running around with a miniature version of himself. Hell, _he_ had to deal with himself and he could barely stand it.

Coke was his _best friend_. It gave him energy and gave him life and got him so animated to the point where he didn’t care if he would break his skull climbing a building and jumping off. He didn’t care if people hated him or that his band was shitty and everyone in the world thought he was garbage, because he was _invincible_. The morning after a heavy mixture of pot and booze helped settle his nerves and nurse them back to health before doing it all over again at the next show.

He doesn’t know what kept him alive for this long.

He needed a spark, he needed something that wasn’t a drug and even though he’s perfectly content with them, fuck, he loves them; he starts to feel the slow wear on his psyche. The monotony of it all, the empty pit in his stomach and the hole in his chest. He’s tired of feeling worthless and awful and angry and he’s tired of the cuts and cigarette burns that scatter haphazardly across his skin. He hates himself. For losing himself so far down the line, for losing his friends, for fucking himself up.

But no one can know that. And he does a fucking great job of making sure people don’t. It’s not all fake, he still knows how to have fun, how to fuck around with people and be the life of the party. It’s just when he’s alone that he feels like death.

He feels like death a lot.

-o-

Today is one of those days.

Pete could hear voices in head screaming at him. He could hear them shouting to kill himself, to drink more vodka, to cut more of his skin, to fall out a window, to bite his lips until his mouth filled with blood, to punch a hole in the wall.

He doesn’t really remember a lot of last night. He remembers sweet, sweet coke and he remembers the cold, white bathrooms and hot, sweating people. He remembers a shining face with bright red cheeks and his own blood running in and out of his mouth. He remembers punching someone and then the sharp and succinct feeling of _being_ punched. He remembers sirens, he remembers police cars.

The voices told him he wanted more coke, that people were watching him, the lights are so bright his eyes might burn out, the ink on his arms would sink into his blood and poison him, the walls might close in and crush him under the weight and the tension in the air and-

“You have one phone call, Wentz. Not that I think it’ll do you any good.”

He swallowed against his coarse throat. _I fucked up. Again_.

The cops were used to him now. He was more of a nuisance at this point than anything else. He’d sit in a cell for a weekend, filled with anxiety dreams and panic attacks and hallucinations, and then he’d be back a few months later.

Except this time he had a number written on his arm.

 _Patrick’s number_.

Shakily gripping the phone and pulling it away from the wall, Pete tried to focus on the numbers scrawled over his tattoos.

Pete’s eyes burned as he tried to make them out. _Should’ve never got these fucking tattoos_. He squinted and pressed his nose closer to his arm. _They really clash with this guy’s handwriting_.

Pete prayed to any fucking god willing to listen that he’d got the number right.

The phone rang. 

He squeaked his shoes on the tile of the floor; the bench he was sitting on was too hard and he squirmed out of discomfort.

The phone rang. 

Pete bit his lip twisting his head to glance at a clock.

_Shit_.

It was close to two in the morning and he assumed Patrick would be asleep but he wished with all of his little fucking heart that he’d pick up.

Pete heard the phone click and let out one of the biggest sighs in his life.

“Uh, hello?” Patrick’s, or at least he hoped it was Patrick’s, voice sounded sleepy and slurred. Like when little kids woke up from their naps with mumbled voices cause they had their thumbs in their mouths and were wiping the sleep from their eyes. 

It was fucking _adorable_. 

Pete scrubbed his hand over his face. _Focus, motherfucker. Focus_.

“Hey, um, it’s Pete.” He scrunched his eyes shut and curled his fingers around the phone, shrinking into his too big hoodie in an attempt to crawl inside it, away from this soon to be awful conversation.

“It’s… what? Wait, why _the fuck_ are you calling me? _How’d you even get my number?!_ ”

Patrick no longer sounded sweet and adorable.

“I just, I met your friend or producer or, whatever, at the party, I think. I can’t really remember. But they gave me your number and, I’m kinda in a mess right now and I feel like a total piece of shit asking but I need help.”

“You’re damn fucking right you need help. Cut to the chase, _you fuck_.” Patrick spit the words out like darts, burying into Pete’s chest.

“I know this is a fucking long shot, but you helped me before and maybe you’ll help me now? I mean, you’re obviously a good dude; you care enough to call a cab for a guy whose guts you hate. And I get why you hate me dude, _I_ hate me.”

Pete takes a long breath, tension rising when Patrick doesn’t answer. 

“But you are like, the only one who’s been nice to me even though you hate me, you know? That’s fucking awesome, dude. You’re like, an angel.”

He hears Patrick groan loudly. “Again with the angel stuff, man.” He strained to hear Patrick’s smile through the phone, but it was there and it gave Pete a sliver of hope.

“Don’t laugh at me, you dick, I’m _serious!_ ” Pete lets himself reciprocate the smile, feeling some of the pressure in his brain slip away. He uncurled the phone from his hand, feeling the rush of blood back into his fingers.

“The picture just stuck in my head, you know? That night your hair was all gold and white in the streetlamp and you have weird hazel-green eyes. They’re really pretty. You have these cute cheeks just like cupid. You’re hella celestial ‘n shit.”

Patrick huffed and Pete heard sheets being ruffled. “Okay, now you’re getting weird.”

This time Pete was the one blushing.

“I can’t help it! It’s a problem, man, for real. I would say no homo, but that was pretty homo.” He rubs his eyes, looking over at a bored police officer standing watch. He snapped his head back to avoid eye contact.

“You can say that again, Jesus.”

“I’m a poet, I can’t help it. But anyway, I need to ask a favor.”

Patrick sighed, “Go ahead; try me.”

Pete shifted in his seat again, bringing one knee up to his chest and wrapping his arm around it.

“Can you pick me up at the police station?” Pete feels guilt and apprehension bubble in his chest and he rakes his fingers through his hair.

“I can totally take care of bail, that’s not the problem. I just need you to get me out of here. You don’t have to drive me or anything. I just can’t leave the station by myself, law says so and stuff.” He babbled, dragging the skin on his face with his chewed nails. 

There was a long pause.

“So what do I get out of it? Not all angels do charity work, y’know.”

Pete smiled so hard he felt like his cheekbones would break though his skin.

“I can pay you or something, I dunno. Whatever you want, I guess.” Pete curled his finger around the telephone cord, grinning after a second. 

“I could blow you if you want.”

There was another pause.

“What the hell- I don’t- no, I don’t- shut the fuck up.” Patrick sputtered. Pete could almost feel him blushing over the phone.

“But no, seriously,” Pete laughs and runs his hand through his hair. “Thanks so much, dude. I really fucking appreciate it.”

“You better. Dick.” Patrick scoffed. “Are you at the station downtown or the one up by the library?” 

“Downtown. I really owe you one, seriously.” 

“I _get it_ , dude. I’ll be there in a bit, Christ.”

He hung up and Pete looked over to the correctional officer, beaming.

She shook her head. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Wentz?”

“Full of surprises and full of shit.” He lets out a relieved laugh, his whole body laughing with him.

-o-

Everything went off without a hitch.

Patrick gets to the station about 45 minutes after the phone call and Pete has to do some paperwork before he can leave, and after that, it’s kind of awkward.

It looked like Patrick was still in his pajamas. He had a loose fitting Bowie t-shirt and his hair was ruffled in the cutest way Pete could imagine. Black sweatpants sat right above his hips, a pair of ratty converse peeking out underneath them.

Pete kicked at the concrete with his head down. 

“So,” He murmured, looking at Patrick shyly.

Patrick moved his glasses to rub at his eyes. “I would take you home, but I really hate you right now. And I’m really tired. Um, so, do you have your phone on you?”

Pete checked his pockets and shook his head.

Patrick whipped his phone out of his pocket, dialed a number and pulled it up to his ear. He pointed at Pete, looking adorably disgruntled.

“You _really_ owe me.”

The cab rolled around the corner almost too soon.

Patrick looked to Pete when it came to a stop. He put his hand out and raised his eyebrows, unsure how to act in this type of situation. 

“Good luck, I guess.”

Pete looked down at his hand and had to fight the urge to hug him. Patrick looked soft and cuddly in his sleep clothes and his cheeks were pink, out of agitation, Pete guessed.

Their hands met and Pete squeezed maybe a little too hard.

“Thanks, dude. It means a lot.” He smiled shyly before opening the cab door. He waved goodbye and kicked  
himself for acting childish. They weren’t friends. People only wave if they’re friends.

Patrick looked on and waved back hesitantly.

Pete sighed. 

_I really need to stop falling love with people who hate me_.


End file.
